Feed the Hungry
by Windswift
Summary: For the love of God, Germany is going to make pancakes.


Disclaimer: _Axis Powers Hetalia_ belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz

_Author's note:_ So apparently I haven't successfully finished a completely light-hearted and humorous fic in, uhhh, three years; now I am kind of unsure about pacing and just about everything, really. Gentle concrit would not go amiss.

_**Feed the Hungry**_

It's Sunday morning and Germany has no one to impress, but first thing after stepping out of bed and straightening the covers he still shrugs on a clean tank top and buttons a decent shirt over it. A pair of pants follows to cover more than his sleepwear does, although his shorts are modest compared to the undress of certain other occasional occupants of his bed. It's not that he's unreasonably shy about his body, and it's only Prussia in the house with him this morning anyway-but Germany could write a book of catastrophes that began with the thought _It's only Prussia_, and he would bet good money a few other nations could publish subsequent editions. In any case, Germany would follow the same habit even if he were living alone with no one to see him. He likes his mornings to start on the right foot: crisp, not lounging slovenly about like a self-indulgent and self-pitying hangover.

So he stops next at the bathroom, to splash a little water on his face and pat down his hair and generally make himself presentable. Not presentable enough to deliver a speech at a meeting, perhaps, but enough to make him feel like a competent, dignified being before breakfast and a proper shower.

Prussia is waiting by the bathroom door, in his boxers and a shirt that's wearing thin at the seams and not quite as white anymore as Germany would like, and with a deep blue scarf laying over his shoulders despite the fact that it's summer. Germany walks past him and to the sink and doesn't ask. Germany doesn't need to ask because Prussia-attempting to look solemn and instead looking particularly smug and pleased with himself-is already talking.

He smooths down the ends of the scarf trailing over his chest, then folds his hands before him. "Our Lord Jesus taught that _what you do for the least of your brothers, you do for me_," Prussia begins. Germany turns off the faucet, his eyes already squeezed shut and his face dripping cold water.

_Please_, he thinks, _please don't let this be another rant about "I was born a Catholic Order, so I'm automatically way more awesome and holy than thou, and one of these days I'll even get Romano to admit it."_ Germany wipes off his face in lieu of clasping his hands, in part because that's always been a habit of Veneziano's rather than his own, and in part because he doesn't want Prussia to get the wrong impression.

"And so he gave us the corporal works of mercy," Prussia continues while Germany runs his damp hands over an unruly lock of hair sticking up on the crown of his head, "that we might comfort our brothers and find salvation at the end of times." Germany grunts an acknowledgment in the back of his throat, before his brother decides he isn't listening and contrives to forcibly seize his attention. Prussia has gravitated to the opposite side of the doorway, so that Germany can see most of his face over his own shoulder. Prussia's cheeks are flat and grave, and the skin of his brow smooth, but his lips are thin-pressed tightly together, forced into a straight line.

Germany would roll his eyes, but Prussia-for all that he isn't a currently functioning nation, and for all that he gets drunk and causes mischief and acts like a sneering idiot-is still a force to be reckoned with, and Germany hasn't had any coffee or breakfast yet this morning. So he turns away from the sink and decides it will be easier to solve the latter problem than deal with his brother's antics first.

Prussia, leaning against the door frame in preparation to drone a long sermon while Germany insists on his perfunctory toiletries, cuts off mid _Thus did he-_, straightens up, and hops back out of Germany's way as he proclaims in a rush, "Go in peace now to feed the hungry, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." He raises his right hand during the last part to sign a cross in the air while Germany passes through the doorway.

_Oh, for the love of... "feed the hungry"?_ "...Fine. _Fine_," Germany grumbles to the hallway in front of him. "Look, I'm walking to the stairs, see? I'm going down to the kitchen, which is where I would have been sooner if some idiot hadn't been delaying me with nonsense-and put that scarf away, it's not a stole. I'll make _pancakes_; I know it's Sunday." He rubs a hand across his forehead and through his hair and thinks: there isn't enough cold water in the world to shock a bit of common sense into this household some mornings.

And Italy insists that _Germany's_ love of the workweek morning routine is probably the first symptom of some grievous mental affliction.

Prussia twirls the end of his scarf in the air as he strolls to the top of the stairs, then hollers down after his brother: "And don't forget, blessed are those who don't skimp on the chocolate chips, for they shall be awesome in the eyes of God!"


End file.
